Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  It took Alan minutes to control himself. ‘Come on then,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s get the cows out.’

  ‘Aye. Then we’ll take a look at the sheep on th’ hill after we’ve done the cows. After we’ve had us dinner.’ Nat began to smile again. ‘If we can get away from Mam and her ruddy hope-chest,’ he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When she woke on Monday morning Rose lay for a few minutes. Mary had gone to the mill and Vivienne, who had an hour’s walk to the Catholic secondary school, had left. The sun was streaming in at the window; she was warm, luxuriant, enjoying the rare solitude of the quiet room and very aware of her body.

  Last night she had been asleep when Aunt Carrie came back from chapel. They had not faced one another since Aunt Carrie had struck her. They would have to talk soon but now Rose was even more resolved never to allow Aunt Carrie any authority over her. She wanted to clear the air between them; to ask her to allow Vivienne’s dancing lessons to continue and had decided, if Aunt Carrie’s mood was propitious, to talk about marrying Alan.

  She got out of bed and sat for a full five minutes, looking at herself in the mirror on the dressing table; looking to see if her face had changed. She thought perhaps it had, making her look older, wiser, now she was . . . What was she? No longer a virgin. A woman perhaps? Or was she just a girl who had Done It?

  No, she wasn’t going to use that expression any more. It didn’t do justice to the way she felt. She saw a pale face looking back at her, with dark shadows under the eyes, which she’d not noticed before. Were they from excitement or worry?

  Last night, instead of dreams of bliss she had been tormented with fears. Perhaps the sound of night-flying aeroplanes passing low over the hills had disturbed her slumber, for she had woken with a start from a nightmare, hearing Alan calling to her from a great distance and, unable to see him, she had been running along a seashore, screaming his name to an empty, darkening sky.

  But there was excitement in her too. Remembering his arms around her, the weight of his body on hers, the slightly bruised sensation that reminded her, with every movement, of their love-making. They had twenty-four hours still.

  She stripped, went to the washbasin, filled it with cold water and lathered herself, using the last piece of scented soap she had. She was accustomed now to washing in cold water.

  She’d be late for work if she didn’t hurry. And she had to leave a note for Aunt Carrie, telling her that she would be home at half-past ten. She’d say she was going to the pictures with Pamela and Sylvia.

  From one of the tiny drawers of the dressing table where she kept her brooches and beads she brought out her little box of Poudre Matité. She kept it hidden from Vivienne who would have used it without a qualm. She dabbed an extra covering under her eyes, then, after staring at her reflection for a few seconds longer she took out her lipstick and applied some with the tip of her little finger, rubbing it in well, before pressing her lips together. She smiled to herself at her boldness. Miss Barclay and Miss Thompson would have something to click their tongues about this morning.

  She left the Temperance Hotel and ran up the steps to the square where she let herself in through the side door of the bank.

  Pamela and Sylvia were leaning over the handrail on the little landing outside the cloakroom, waiting for her. ‘Tell us all about it, Rose,’ Pamela demanded, following her through to the cloakroom. ‘Where did he take you?’

  ‘Has he gone back yet?’ Sylvia asked eagerly, her dark eyes lively with curiosity.

  ‘No. He’s still here. I’m seeing him tonight,’ Rose told them as she hung the black jacket on her peg and turned to face them. ‘He took me to the opera.’

  ‘Phew!’ Pamela sat down quickly on a chair, arms flopping over the side, gawky legs outstretched, pretending astonishment. ‘I’ve never been taken to the opera by a man. Only Daddy.’

  They heard the back door slam; heard the noise of one pair of pattering feet and one heavy, clumping pair in the corridor.

  ‘That’ll be Woof-Woof and Tombstone,’ Pamela said, making them explode with laughter. ‘Look tragic before they get here. It will ruin their day if they think we’re enjoying life.’

  ‘Tell us all about it in the back room, Rose.’ Sylvia pulled Pamela to her feet. ‘Come on, you idiot.’

  Rose winked at them as Miss Barclay and Miss Thompson came into the cloakroom. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ she promised.

  The machines were clattering and clashing when she reached the back room. Pamela and Sylvia entered figures at great speed, their fingers flying over the keys and bashing the long bar whilst with their free left hands they turned over cheques, memorising and entering.

  ‘Come on,’ Sylvia said. ‘Tell us.’

  They darted quick looks between times as they encouraged her to tell them all about her date. ‘What time are you seeing him tonight?’ Pamela urged her on.

  ‘He’s taking me to the Chestergate Cafe for tea at six o’clock.’ Rose had to raise her voice against the noise. ‘Then we’re going to his house afterwards.’

  Pamela stopped still, the motor of her machine whirring and wheezing as it ran down. ‘He’s taking you home already? That means he’s serious.’

  Rose laughed. ‘Yes. You are a fool, Pamela.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Pamela kept her face straight as she glared at Sylvia as if daring her to contradict, ‘we’re going to the Chestergate cafe for our tea tonight. Aren’t we, Sylvia?’

  ‘No. Yes. Are we?’ Sylvia’s bright eyes flew from Pamela to Rose so quickly and with such alarm that the three of them laughed until they were weak.

  The door opened and Miss Thompson crossed the room. ‘Concentrate on your work, girls,’ she snapped. ‘And you, Miss Kennedy. Come along. You are keeping the Chief Cashier waiting.’

  Despite her earlier feeling that the hours would drag until she saw Alan, it was already a quarter to six. She had been upstairs and made herself ready and her heart was starting the pounding that the very thought of Alan set up. She would be with him a few minutes from now.

  The banking hall was at the far end of the tiled corridor from the back room where she helped the girls to tidy date stamps, pens and papers. Out of hours, when the heavy doors were closed, staff used the side door, which was reached from the yard. It was not possible to open it from the outside and a knock, as now, at this time of the afternoon, was a nuisance.

  ‘Damn,’ said Pamela. ‘I’ll go.’

  They heard her open the door and her clear, carrying voice saying, ‘You must be Alan. Do come in.’

  She put her head round the door and made an appreciative face. ‘Rose,’ she called loudly, as if the place had not fallen silent, ‘someone to see you.’

  Rose pulled wide the door. He was in uniform. He stood there –tall, dark and straight in the well-fitting suit of air force blue. He seemed to fill the narrow hallway. She had never seen him in uniform before and for a second could not speak. He looked so different; distant, dedicated and so very handsome. There was a strange taste in her mouth, a sensation like butterflies in her inside as she gathered herself and made the introductions.

  ‘Pamela; this is Alan MacGregor. Alan; Pamela Tannenbaum.’

  Pamela was utterly composed. ‘You were a medical student, Rose tells us,’ she said as she shook his hand confidently. ‘Which branch of medicine do you want to specialise in?’

  ‘Obstetrics.’ Alan smiled at her.

  ‘Daddy’s a consultant obstetrician,’ she said, ‘in Manchester.’

  Rose interrupted her to introduce Sylvia to Alan and all the time she could see that Alan was impatient to speak to her.

  ‘Do you think I could have a word with you alone, Rose?’ he said as soon as he had shaken Sylvia’s hand.

  ‘Go into the back room,’ Pamela said. ‘Be my guest. We’re going upstairs now, aren’t we Sylvia?’

  ‘No. Yes. Oh, yes,’ Sylvia replied, bewilderment in her face again.

  When th
e door closed behind the girls Alan took her hand in his.

  ‘What is it?’ Rose asked. But she knew, before he spoke, what he would say.

  ‘There was a telegram for me when I came back from the farm,’ he said. ‘I’ve to be back tonight. It looks as though things are moving.’

  She heard excitement in his voice; knew he was eager to go, to join the action. A shudder went through her, yet she made her face bright for him lest he should leave with a shadow of anxiety for her. She fought back her impulse to hold on to him, to beg him to stay.

  ‘Have we any time?’ she asked.

  He gripped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Only enough time to tell you I love you,’ he said. ‘And to give you this.’

  He took a small box from his pocket and opened it. The diamond cluster caught the light as he withdrew it and held out his hand for hers. The ring slipped easily on to her third finger.

  Rose lifted brimming eyes and saw that his were also bright with tears. He held her then in a grip of iron and his mouth came down on hers with a possessiveness she’d not felt before. And her heart was crying inside her, Don’t Go. Please Don’t Go, whilst her arms were around his waist, feeling his slim, strong body under the rough serge tunic that encased him.

  And then, as if he needed to do it this way, he released her. He looked hard at her, his eyes searching her face as if he wanted to memorise every detail of it and before her tears and the naked fear for him could overwhelm her, abruptly he turned, and was gone.

  Pamela was holding her, steadying her as sobs shook her and, in the loyal way Rose would come to rely upon, offering friendship and strength to sustain her.

  ‘Wash your face, Rose,’ Pamela said when the shaking ceased. ‘Brush your hair. We’ll go out to tea anyway, the three of us. Alan’s a British pilot. He has to do his duty. We can’t let the side down, girl. Keep your chin up. Press on.’

  Carrie regretted it now. She regretted losing her temper, striking Rose. After she’d done it she had gone upstairs and cried. It was years since she’d last been driven to tears, but seeing her there, in that car with Douglas McGregor’s lad – and Cecil there too . . . He’d seen it. Cecil had parked his Humber in front of the town hall before the concert and rather than move it he had said he’d walk with her down the Hundred and Eight steps after the recital. They had passed right beside them. Bold as brass they had been – Rose and Alan McGregor. She was sure they had never even seen her and Cecil walking by.

  Cecil hurried her along, muttering, ‘Don’t look,’ in an urgent voice. Immodesty in a woman was offensive to Cecil. He preached against it at the reformatory. She had looked. Of course she had looked. And she’d been sick to the stomach.

  She’d asked him to leave her at the door of the Temperance Hotel. She couldn’t excuse or explain Rose’s shameful conduct. She had gone inside to wait. And, as she’d waited, all the memories of her own downfall rose to confront her. Surely Rose wasn’t going to do the same as she had done? It wouldn’t be adultery in Rose’s case. Not as it had been with her and Patrick Kennedy.

  She only waited ten minutes before Rose came in but as soon as she’d spoken, all the rage, all the uncontrollable rage that was in her, rose to the surface and she’d not been able to stop herself from striking out. Now she regretted it. She would try to make peace between them.

  She had hardly slept that night and the nights since. For the first time in her life she was tormented about whether she was doing right. Before she’d had the girls to live with her she had never doubted herself. She used to ask herself how Father would have dealt with everything. She spent more and more time in prayer but now her prayers went unanswered.

  Still, Vivienne’s moods had improved. Since she’d put her foot down over the dancing lessons she’d calmed down. She’d give her another week or two before she reconsidered the lessons.

  Now she walked up Churchwallgate to the market. It was a beautiful morning. There were quite a few people in the market square and it was only eight o’clock. She’d get some meat if the butcher had anything. The ration was only one and ten pence-worth a week each and she wanted a joint for the weekend. The butcher opened at eight and the greengrocer at half past. Frank Carter opened at nine. She’d buy a packet of his sleeping-powders.

  When the shopping was done she went to Frank Carter’s. His hair was white now. His son, another Frank, had qualified as a proper chemist and he’d make up a cure for anything. ‘I’m not sleeping well,’ she told the senior Frank. She had to lean over a sack of something that smelt malty. It made her feel sick. ‘And I keep – I know it sounds daft – I keep bursting into tears. For nothing.’

  He frowned. ‘How’s your appetite?’

  ‘It’s going.’

  ‘Do you get faint?’

  He was clever. He was as good as a doctor – better in fact. Fancy knowing that she felt faint. She’d forgotten to tell him that. ‘I get – kind of – what you might call mazy bouts, Frank. I go all mazy and have to grab on to things. I can’t concentrate any more.’

  He went into the back and dispensed some medicine for her, a ruby-red colour it was. He said it would help her sleep and that she was to take a tablespoonful, in water, after food. She felt a bit better just knowing there was a cure for it.

  When she got in she saw the note on the kitchen table. ‘I am going to the pictures after work, with Pamela and Sylvia. Back at eleven, Rose.’ It wasn’t even addressed to anyone. She looked at it, knew perfectly well that Rose was lying – she’d be seeing Alan McGregor again – and made up her mind to talk to her, tonight.

  In the middle of the morning Cecil called to tell her that the council had agreed to pay what she privately thought was an exorbitant rent for the town property. She’d bought it on Cecil’s recommendation so she made allowances for his excitable state. He had to keep dodging out of the way in the kitchen. Mrs Terry Chenko was bustling about, preparing a goulash at the time.

  ‘Don’t forget zee muzik,’ she kept reminding them.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Carrie answered. She turned to Cecil. ‘Mr and Mrs Chenko are having a musical evening,’ she explained. ‘It’s a Polish festival.’

  Mrs Tereschenko nodded and smiled. She understood a little English. She couldn’t follow conversations but she could ask for what she wanted in the shops. She must have persuaded the butcher to let her have two weeks’ meat ration. They would be living on fish and liver or sausages, all unrationed, for the next fortnight by the size of the dish she was using.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Singer will be coming downstairs as well,’ Carrie went on. ‘We are going to have it in the dining room.’

  ‘Be sure that it is not an idolater’s festival.’ Cecil did not lower his voice. ‘Remember, these people have not been saved.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. And don’t start all that. They are nice people.’ Here Carrie smiled encouragement again at Mrs Tereschenko and saw by her expression that the woman hadn’t understood a word Cecil had uttered. She felt herself going mazy again.

  ‘Will you allow your niece to join the celebration?’ Cecil asked her, in an undertone.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Carrie pulled herself together and looked at him closely. He looked inflated, as he did before he gave a sermon. ‘Which niece?’

  ‘Has she repented? Have you chastised her?’ Cecil came closer and reached for her hand.

  Carrie pulled it from his grasp. ‘That’s enough!’ she said. Then she said, so that Mrs Tereschenko would not think anything was amiss, ‘Get back to the council meeting.’ Her expression, she knew, was forbidding.

  Cecil picked up his coat. ‘“Who can find a virtuous woman?”’ he proclaimed. ‘Ecclesiastes – one. “For her price is far above rubies”.’

  ‘I said, “That is enough”, Cecil,’ Carrie said. ‘Don’t assume any rights in this household. I’ll deal with the girls in my own way.’

  ‘I make apple strudel, yes?’ Mrs Tereschenko asked.

  ‘Ye
s. Yes. Anything you like,’ Carrie said. ‘I’ll see you to the door, Cecil.’

  He left, after kissing and nearly crushing her hand. He had a grip of iron when it suited him. It was most unpleasant. She climbed the stairs to her sitting room. She had a bit of a headache so she soaked a pad of cotton wool in eau-de-cologne, put it over her forehead and lay on her settee for half an hour. Lying there she reflected on the feeling of unease that the touch of Cecil gave to her. It was odd because she reacted with such delight when Mr Tereschenko took her hand to his lips. He had spoken to her yesterday, when she’d come in from Sunday school.

  ‘Mees Shriglee,’ he’d begun, taking her fingers lightly in his and raising them to his lips. She had found herself feeling regal, exalted; not at all offended as she sometimes was when Cecil touched her.

  ‘Mees Shriglee. Irina . . . my wife . . . and I ask you and your most lovely girls to take zee supper. If eez posseeble. In your dining room for zee lodgers.’

  ‘What a charming idea, Mr Chenko,’ she’d replied, all girlish under his flattering gaze. His eyes held hers but there was nothing but admiration and, yes, respect in them as she smiled back at him.

  She was surprised, in view of the note, when Rose came in at half-past six, saying that she had had her tea.

  ‘Can l talk to you, Rose,’ Carrie said. ‘I want a word in private.’

  Rose nodded. She looked pale and a bit puffy-eyed but it was impossible to guess at her mood. Carrie went ahead, up the stairs. ‘Close the door,’ she said when they were inside the sitting room. ‘And sit down.’

  Rose shut the door and followed her to the octagonal table in the window. ‘We can’t go on like this,’ Carrie began, ‘not talking.’

  ‘I think we’ve said too much,’ Rose answered, not looking directly at her.

  ‘I have,’ Carrie said quietly, fighting back the tears that threatened. ‘I know I have said too much. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry I hit you.’

  Rose still didn’t look up.

  ‘I don’t want the same thing to happen to you,’ Carrie went on. ‘You are my daughter and . . .’